"No, sir," she emphasized soberly; "if you ever let that cat out of the bag, it'll be all up with me—I mean Jack will never let me come again. You must promise me."
"But—"
"Oh, but me no 'buts'—promise!"
"Why, then—er—of course, if you wish it."
"That's right, because I want to come again—that is, if you want me. But if Brother Jack was on to you, Dicky, as I am, he would sooner have me at a hotel, that's all."
"But my dear Frances—"
"I tell you I know, Dicky; he doesn't approve of young ladies in pajamas." She chuckled. "Not even black ones."
She stood up, looking at herself and performing a graceful pirouette before the long pier glass.
"Now, if they had been crimson," she proceeded, "he might have felt different. Old Jack's great on Harvard, and so am I."
Of course. All Radcliffe girls were, I knew.